Routine
by Daisy Bokoblin
Summary: "Don't let war become routine," he'd said. "For when war becomes routine, it's only a matter of time." Maybe Gordin should have taken that advice more to heart than he had. (Shadow Dragon fic, focusing on Gordin. Onesided Gordin/Norne.)


**AN- I should be sleeping... I should be sleeping... But I'm not, and decided to instead write my first Fire Emblem oneshot! Yay! Now, this is a Shadow Dragon oneshot, focusing on Gordin (because I don't see much of him in this section), and it's very much experimental.**

**You read that right, EXPERIMENTAL. I am experimenting with Fire Emblem, concepts, and characters I've never written. It might be a flop, but if nothing else, it was fun to write!**

**Also, fair warning, Gordin is probably VERY OOC. I'm not sure because I'm still on chapter 6 of Shadow Dragon XD**

**I hope you enjoy, and reviews/favorites/follows are always appreciated :)**

**(I hope I don't regret posting this by morning...)**

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With a scream, the man with the axe charged him, and an arrow was driven through his heart. If Gordin had to describe the war he helped fight, he would use the word 'gory'. If nothing else, it was that. The man with the axe died, leaving Gordin to move to the next target.

He had been fighting since Prince Marth spared his life, but when he first learned how the battles went, he almost wished he had died by his prince's sword through his chest. That was months ago. Now, killing was simple.

Another yell from behind him, and he spun with a pointed arrow already at the ready. A burly thug with a sword was charging him, and in one split second, his arrow flew through the air. It hit the man's leg, but he kept coming. Another arrow, this time to his shoulder. He kept coming. The thug was practically on top of him when the last arrow flew straight and true, piercing the man's chest. He fell onto the bloody battlefield.

Odds said the man was likely to die, but Gordin was too busy to make sure he did. War waits for no man.

Gordin wasn't exactly sure when he stopped feeling. Wasn't sure which kill was the first one that he felt nothing as the man fell to the ground. Or woman. As said before, he didn't know.

The green haired archer glanced around, and noticed the battle was mostly confined to the other side of the field than where he was. Prince Marth had placed Gordin there, that part of the field. Or maybe Jagen had. Gordin wasn't exactly privy to the strategizing, more just given a job and expected to carry it out to the best of his abilities.

Whoever had placed him there didn't want him to be in the thick of it. But he wasn't alone, no. Norne, the red haired archer, had been stuck in that area of the field with him, and for that he was glad. She was so beautiful, but he couldn't tell her that. He'd be turned down for sure. Even though she was in his general area, however, she was far enough away so they weren't right next to each other. Gordin was slightly upset by that.

But it was routine by this point, the sharpshooting and the killing. Gordin was going through the motions like always. Death no longer affected him. Maybe it was routine to them all, the war. Perhaps they all were now unaffected by the last cries of a man, choking on his inevitable death.

Or maybe it was just Gordin. Maybe they all had emotions still, the horror that came when you first killed a man. Maybe Gordin was alone.

One of the first bits of wisdom he'd gotten when he joined Marth's Army was from Jagen.

_"Don't let war become routine," _he'd said. _"For when war becomes routine, it's only a matter of time."_

Gordin asked what he meant, 'it was only a matter of time'. But Jagen wouldn't say what, a look of unease upon his face. And the archer didn't press the matter, for fear of what the answer would be.

The routine was unintentional. He tried listening to Jagen, keeping every emotion he felt at a man's death for as long as possible, but then one day… The feelings went. He shot a Pegasus Knight when she wasn't looking, and she screamed when the arrow hit her back and she fell. And he felt nothing. He watched with cold eyes as she fell, and he knew he should feel _something_, _anything_.

But he didn't, and he knew that day that whatever repercussions would come were coming soon.

A Cavalier galloped like lightning, getting ever closer to Gordin, and he shot at it methodically. The arrows made whishing sounds as they left the bow, one finding its mark and hitting the horse's leg. With a pained neigh, the animal fell, and Gordin quickly shot the man on its back.

It was all routine.

And then a cold pain shot through his body, a piece of cold metal sticking out of his chest. He turned his head slightly, and saw the man he'd shot and left for dead, the arrow that Gordin had fired no longer sticking out of his chest. The man ripped his sword out and collapsed on the battlefield yet again, moving no more.

Gordin's head spun. Odds had said the man was dead. He had been shot in the chest. How could he live long enough to stick his sword through the archer's turned back?

When Gordin's legs gave out from underneath him, he didn't fight it. He stared at the bright blue sky from his spot laying on the ground, the blue so cheery compared to what went on beneath it. How could the sun shine on so many dead people? His thoughts were racing, but his body stayed completely still. He cast a glance down at his upturned chest, watching thick blood seep out and stain his armor.

Was this it? Probably, and Gordin found he was scared. He was going to die, and he was going to die alone and without telling Norne his love. Forever his feelings were to be unrequited. He took a shaky breath, unable to stop the tears that fell.

His life was going to be over, and no one was with him to comfort him when he passed. He wasn't lucky enough for that.

Perhaps this was what Jagen had meant, Gordin was wondering, his mind going anywhere but the searing pain he felt. Perhaps this is the consequence of letting war become routine. You think the man is dead, just like every man before him was, but you shouldn't compare this battle to the last. Every battle is a new one. That man might be holding on for just a second longer, just to live another moment, and take out one last enemy. In Gordin's case, he was that enemy to the man who held on for one more second.

He wondered why his emotions left him. He shouldn't be so uncaring, unemotional when a man's life left him, never again to return.

And then the pain hit him head-on, and his vision went white before black seeped in, and he took his last breath.

His last thought was Norne.


End file.
